Of Life and Death
by ranestorm007
Summary: While tracking a serial killer, police detective Emmett Fields engages a beautiful young woman who resembles the killer's past targets.
1. Chapter 1 - La Tormenta

**"Of Life and Death"**

 _I wanted the past to go away, I wanted_

 _to leave it, like another country; I wanted_

 _my life to close, and open_

 _like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of_

 _the song_

 _where it falls_

 _down over the rocks; an explosion; I wanted_

 _to know,_

 _whoever I was, I was_

 _alive_

 _for a little while._

\- _Mary Oliver_

 _"_ _Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore."_

\- - _The Raven - Edgar Alan Poe_

Even regular patrons described the Grey Fox tavern as a true fleapit. From ceiling to filthy floor, the pub was strewn with stocky tables and chairs that had weathered time, scarred and waxy from years of contact with grimy humans and drunken mayhem. With no windows and plastered walls, brick shown through in crusty fragments, and dinginess appeared everywhere the gaslight sconces touched, in little balls of lantern light. Once the tavern's pride, the glowing brass rod that ran along the bar was now a lifeless brown, veiled like an old copper penny; and deep engravings of sorrow, anger, and sometimes love, littered the bar top.

Patrons read, "BITCHES, EVERY ONE," in heavy blocked letters near the bar end and "R LOVES E" in flowery cursive near the center, oddly enough, facing the barkeep's side. Someone had scratched a naked woman's outline on the side panel, facing the bathroom, which was basically a closet with a hole leading to the street's underground sewer system.

Newly appointed barmaid Anna Monroe had managed to procure work at the Grey Fox, as Baltimore offered little opportunity for a woman with no family and no means… outside of the sex trade, that is…and she was nervously grateful for the job. On her first day, horrified at the tavern's sheer degree of filth, she asked if she would need to clean, as well. The owner laughed.

But after one month serving drinks, it became glaringly apparent that Anna wasn't barmaid stock. She didn't take shit from anyone, didn't want to be pawed at, and wasn't interested in listening to the things they wanted to do to her "when she got off work." After hearing, like a broken phonograph, "Well, you ain't wearin' no ring," she bought the cheapest band she could afford, of an alloyed metal. And finally the owner took her aside like he was chastising an errant teenager for bad behavior.

"Anna, you ain't gettin' the complete picture of what you do here. You're a barmaid. You serve the drinks but you got to entertain, too. What's wrong with some flirtin', let 'em be men why don't you, be a reason they wanna come back in. And if you didn't want to be pawed at and courted, then you don't know squat about liquor. Flirtin' sells brandy, and this place sure ain't sellin' it by the decor. You're a pretty girl, and they ain't gonna not hit on a pretty girl."

But Anna couldn't turn off her dignity, and the owner eventually delegated her to the shift no one wanted – weekdays 1:00 am to 9:00 am, when no one drank really, except drunks who had no job to trudge to in the morning and the occasional policeman coming off the night beat since headquarters lay just across the street. It meant tips were slim to none but at least she had time to study; and during the day she slept between her classes, catching cat naps in hallway chairs, park benches. She even took a nap once in the linguistics department restroom because on some level it was better to wake up in a toilet stall than to open her eyes to find strangers staring at her with pursed disapproving faces.

One of only 10 women allowed at the University of Maryland in 1850, excellent grades and seven years of scrimped savings had gotten her in the door. And she hated that money made her rethink her defensiveness about all the handsy men she'd snapped at and fought off during her first weeks. Maybe that was the necessary cost for making rent and buying books; and she didn't know how much longer she could eek out her expenses at the Grey Fox with a weeknight shift. But what else could she do…

In the meantime, her nights became a trickle of the usual regulars. The drunks she'd never seen sober along with tourists who wandered in and had one fearful drink out of courtesy before fleeing. And off-duty beat cops in their navy blue uniforms and natty hats usually clustered in boisterous groups of four to five. She knew all their names now and enjoyed talking with them. They made her realize that maybe her past had made her too defensive. Or maybe it just made her strong. She just didn't know anymore.

Then there was the man she'd randomly started to call John. Anna suspected he was a policeman although he never wore a uniform. Maybe he was a detective. What struck her about him most was, aside from the drunks who arrived so stone cold inebriated they couldn't keep their heads off the bar, he was the only regular who'd never solicited her. And she'd randomly wondered if he preferred the company of men then felt ashamed for thinking it. Maybe he was just a gentleman. But if there was such a thing in Baltimore, she hadn't met one yet. Or maybe she had… Even if the extent of their relationship was him ordering a drink from her two to three times a week.

Anna had never engaged "John" beyond filling his drink order, but she did watch him, unobtrusively yet…intently. A silver watch chain draped across every waistcoat he wore, and he checked the watch often. He usually wore a dark wool coat with plain buttons but a velvet collar, similar to police garb but somewhat different, more tailored. "John" rarely removed it and she thought she knew why. On more than one occasion, she noticed the hard, long outline of a revolver in crossdraw, through the coat at his waist and thigh.

His hair was pitch black, chin length and hanging in loose curls kept away from his face. Practical but elegant, like his clothing, she could tell it reflected a regimented life. He seemed studied, intelligent and often took notes with focused intensity, travelling with a screwtop inkwell and folded paper that he kept in his waistcoat pockets. Sometimes, he just stared ahead lost in thought and usually left without touching his drink, even if he stayed for hours. She wanted to know what he thought about all those hours at the table but knew she'd never ask. And he consistently left her a tip that equaled the cost of his small orders.

When "John" did show, it was always on weekdays between 2:00 am and 4:00 am. He'd appear, subtle as a shadow, and sit in the single table at the far end where light never touched, his cape folded over the chair opposite him instead of the entrance rack. If she got preoccupied in the back and didn't see him right away, he never complained. In fact, usually lost in thought, he seemed quietly surprised to see her at his side, like he'd forgotten there was service available. But they'd moved beyond order taking. He always ordered one whiskey, neat, and never any food. He'd come in, quietly sit in the same corner table away from the light and she'd bring him the drink.

"Thank you, Anna," he always said quietly, making sure to look at her when he said it.

That night, it sleeted in torrential sheets, the wind biting through Baltimore's streets and channeling through the narrow roadways with greater force. On shifts like this, Anna didn't even regret the tavern's lack of windows; and after studying several hours she took to cleaning in the back, not expecting any drinkers on such a horrific night unless someone wandered in just to escape the weather. On that end, she put on a kettle of thick London broil stew to use last night's barely ordered special then began scrubbing at an old patch of kitchen filth with dedicated purpose.

So hours later, it startled her to hear a bar chair scuff across the stone floor out front, and she wiped off her hands and looked through the hallway. It was "John," soaking wet and sitting down at his table. She noticed he'd left his cloak at the doorway tonight, and knew he'd done it to be polite but she sarcastically thought, "These floors could do with a little water."

He sat down with miserable cold set in his body, tightened his hands into fists, stretched them out again and brushed them together, creating some warmth, then rubbed at his shoulder, as if the weather made it ache – something she'd actually seen him do many times.

"I apologize for tracking water, Anna, it's quite the night out there."

She put a generously poured whiskey glass on the table and quickly followed it with the plate that held a bowl of stew and hot buttered bread. He didn't even look at the plate.

"…I didn't order food."

"You're soaking wet, you should eat something hot, even if you're not hungry."

He looked mildly perplexed, mouth half open while Anna stared back pragmatically, in something of a standoff. She knew at that moment that he was just as stubborn as she was, but she also knew that she'd win. Finally, he looked down and off to the side.

"As long as I'm charged."

She had no intention of charging him.

"Let me know if you want more, there's plenty in the back, bread as well." She put a hand briefly on his shoulder then began walking back to her cleaning, but he said, "What are you always reading over there, at the bar?"

She stood still, facing away from him and didn't know quite what to do for a moment. But she turned, embarrassingly hesitant and suddenly worried that she would appear awkward. But she was being awkward. Why was she being awkward..

"Oh…. Well…. they're books, from my classes. My class books. From the university."

"University?" He asked as if he were interested, not simply surprised, like most men were. And most women. "I don't know if you'd care to sit down, but if you would, please….you've served me several dozen whiskeys and I didn't even know you were a student."

As she sat down, he dipped bread into the bowl, pushing it down into the soup with his spoon. His hands were shaking and she couldn't tell whether it was from cold or exhaustion. Maybe both.

"Yes, I'm a student at the University of Maryland…I'm sorry, but…I don't know your name."

She caught him during the first big bite and watched him slowly work it down before he proffered a hand from across the table

"I'm Detective Fields," he said with guarded politeness.

His hand was like ice, and she held it for longer than she should have.

"You're freezing."

It was the only thing she could think to say, and he pulled the hand away and put it in his lap, the other stirring the soup carefully, his shoulders curling slightly around the heat of the bowl.

"Well, I won't be for long. Thank you for this. It's very good."

In spite of herself, she appreciated the compliment. "It doesn't take much to make kettle food...On cold nights, I put something on in case someone arrives in a state…like you just did."

He nodded slightly, continuing with the meal. Sitting this close, she could only describe him as devastatingly handsome, with piercing eyes. In the low light she couldn't tell whether they were brown or green, only that they were beautiful.

"I used to cook like this, put on something to stew while I was at work. But these days… I don't stop working much, it's always cold sandwiches lately. Nice to have a warm meal."

"Well, it doesn't take much time. And it's better than cold cuts."

He shook his head and took another bite, considering her.

"It's just me. Well, just me and Carl," he said with a bare hint of a smile. "Not much use in going through the trouble to cook for one."

And even though she'd discerned how private he was, she asked anyway.

"Carl?"

"Oh…" He looked past her, like he couldn't figure out how to explain. "Carl is my…pet. He was left to me by a friend. Or rather, I took him in. He's a…well, he's a….raccoon."

"A raccoon!" Anna let out a genuine laugh. "A raccoon named Carl?"

"Yes." When Anna laughed, Fields allowed himself a small, half-hearted chuckle, and his face said he'd forgotten what it felt like to laugh and really mean it. "He's not terribly tidy, I'm afraid. But I've grown quite fond of him."

She sat sideways in the chair, partially committing to his offer to sit and talk, picking idly at one fingernail and letting him eat. She tried to think of something else to say when he spoke again first.

"What are you studying at the university?"

"Linguistics, actually. My father…he was a contract translator for the military, and I worked with him as a teenager, so I arrived with a good foundation of knowledge…here in Baltimore."

"How long have you been here?"

"Three months. This is my first semester, my first time in Baltimore."

He took a small, measured drink of the whiskey, considering her for a moment. Sitting in front of him, finally, away from the shadows, she found that his face was remarkably expressive yet difficult to read.

"Your family must be very proud."

Normally, she would have just answered, "Yes."

"My parents both died in an attack…they were murdered. I have no family to speak of."

"Were your hands injured in that same attack?" he said, recognizing defense scars when he saw them. There was a clinical flatness to his question, and Anna felt her face go suddenly dark, heat pounding at the neck hem of her dress. She felt oddly betrayed that he'd noticed the scars raking across her palms when no one else ever had.

But Fields immediately realized he'd bristled her and followed up with, "Forgive me." His voice was tight more than apologetic, like he was chastising himself for failing to "turn off" his detective side. But it was too ingrained, it was everything really. And it didn't afford him much success at social conversation. There was a long silence across the table, and he finally sighed audibly.

"We all have scars that we try to hide, Anna…..All manner of scars….It wasn't my place to ask you about yours."

She studied him, realizing that it wasn't something he'd say to just anyone, that maybe she already knew more about him than most people. And in an odd way, she regretted his desire to apologize, as if her reaction would return them to prior formalities.

"No need for apologies, Detective Fields."

That's all she could say but knew he didn't expect more.

The tension fell away again, and they talked about her linguistics work, her life in the west with her parents as a native translator. Her dreams of writing a book on undeciphered languages and cryptology, of visiting South America. They talked of Baltimore and sites to see in the east. She noticed that he kept the conversation away from himself; and every time she tried to learn more about him, he gently steered their talk back to her.

But after a good half hour, he reached for his pocketwatch, glancing at her with an apologetic expression, as if it were rude to worry about the hour. But when he flipped it open, he looked startled, as if he'd been daydreaming in the middle of a busy afternoon.

"I'm wasting time. I mean, I'm not wasting time, as it were, it's just…. My time is rarely my own these days, and I've taken enough of yours. I have more work to do tonight….and…I must admit that I had purpose in asking you to join me."

Half his food and drink remained, and she could tell he wouldn't return to either, for his eyes were suddenly set like steel on the far wall, unfocused. "There's a case….I feel like we're running out of time. Every day, he's always a step ahead, and I've been meaning to tell you, Anna." His dark gaze came back to her. "You work a late shift here, and you walk home at night. I've seen you. It's not safe, especially not right now, for you to do that, not anymore."

Their eyes locked and she squeezed one hand hard with the other under the table, felt a lump form in her throat. And when she didn't speak, he did. Of unspeakable things.

"I need you to understand. He attacks only at night, and he only attacks women. They've all looked the same. Dark haired, delicate.…..beautiful." He swallowed, as if that last word, although necessary information, overstepped a boundary. "There is never enough left to perform a proper autopsy…Do you understand what I mean by that?"

"I've never been afraid to walk home," she said, actually meaning it. And she patted her dress near the bust, where a small derringer lay hidden, knowing that he'd know what the gesture meant.

But he shook his head pointedly. "Gun or no gun, be afraid," his jaw set as hard as his words. "Humans are the most dangerous of the unknowns on this earth, they're the root of unperceivable nightmares." Even in the cold of the tavern, she saw sweat start to glisten on his forehead. He suddenly took a deep breath and looked down at his lap, rubbed slowly across his eyes and forehead with one hand. He was exhausted.

"Is there anyone who can walk you home after your shifts?"

She knew no one in Baltimore, really, and The Grey Fox had no doorman on weeknights. But to lessen his worry she answered, "I can arrange to have someone escort me home."

He looked relieved and his shoulders fell a little.

"That's good…Very good." He fished a thigh pocket for three times the cost of the meal and, when he stood and proffered the coins, he took her hand in both of his, not letting go. There was something in his eyes that she couldn't name, then she realized….he was scared for her.

"My name…. is Emmett. You can call me Emmett," he said, with a note of defeat in his voice. As if he was saying something he shouldn't.

Then he stepped back, buttoning his overcoat and adding with measured formality, "I rarely talk with people outside of work, and Carl is not very chatty, at least not in English.…" She realized that for him, the light joke was practically flirting. "I'm sorry to have bothered you tonight. I wouldn't have but…I needed to talk to you. Please take my warning seriously."

Anna nodded, her eyes validating that she did.

"It was….nice conversing with you, Anna."

Emmett pulled at the bottom of his waistcoat and with a small polite nod downward, he was gone again, until the next night his shadow would appear in that corner.

It hit Anna hard how badly she felt that he headed back into that horrible storm, that he probably wouldn't sleep, and that he left food on the table that he really needed. And it hit her harder that he lived with the weight of his work. What it would feel like to permeate and live in a killer's mind, always working to channel that evil, to understand it.

His warning sat like a hot stone in her chest, old nightmares resurfacing. She tried to push the fears back down, think of something else and with that she said quietly to herself, under her breath, "He thinks I'm beautiful."

-fin-


	2. Chapter 2 - The Storm Within

Fields stirred at the faint sound of chittering in his quiet bedroom and cracked open one eye to see, just above the bed's edge, two beady eyes and a hedge of whiskers looking at him expectantly.

"I fed you three hours ago," he rasped, barely a whisper; but Carl plainly didn't remember the meal.

Emmett placed bare feet on the cold hardwood floor, sitting silently for a minute before checking the silver pocketwatch on the nightsand, its cover glowing from the oil lamp's flicker as twilight crept through the window in a blue haze. He never slept in a fully darkened room.

5:15 am.

Somehow, Fields always knew the time but checked anyway, just to confirm. Three hours had passed, and sleeping always came with guilt, as if allowing his body some recovery wasted precious time. And on this case, every minute was indeed precious, but even he had to admit that the ongoing lack of sleep had started to wear him down.

His clothes from 2:15 am, still heavy with rain, were folded neatly over the wooden chair, and he pulled a small notebook from the wet waistcoat and took it to the kitchen, his body wrapped in a thin wool blanket pulled tightly over bare shoulders.

"Mr. Carl….SIR Carl," he said quietly as the raccoon pattered behind him. Emmett opened two loosely folder bundles of paper on the kitchen counter to reveal a quarter loaf of bread and a bit of beef, made the raccoon a fair-sized snack then hunkered down in front of Edgar's pet, who held out his spindly hands for the early breakfast.

"Little Sarah will come by for your daily walk in the park today, if the rain stops. I know you love the attention."

He watched Carl eat contently, considering him as he tried to ignore the silence of the house.

He thought about eating something, as well, but food seemed like such a bothersome task these days, just like sleeping. Occasionally, he drank honey in water, and strong coffee alone had gotten him through multiple days on difficult cases. But the stew at the Grey Fox earlier made the stale bread and dried meat in his house seem like unpalatable fare.

Beneath the blanket he ran a hand over the musculature of his stomach, his body had become lithe, sinewy these last few months. And he knew he should eat something, but his mind had already moved to other things.

Emmett idly told himself it was duty alone to check in on Miss Monroe soon. Anna…. Only that, nothing more. But he felt something alarming and unexpected within himself and quickly categorized it into something safe, stored it away.

In the library, remnants from yesterday's fire remained, a glowing pile of orange embers dimly showering the curtain-drawn room; and he lit the oil lamp and leaned back in the chair, sorting through the case notes laid out neatly in separate, chronological sections. To the latest pile, he added yesterday's notebook.

A case's notes went with him everywhere like a well-traveled corner of his mind, they were lain out at work then at home, then work again, becoming the focus of all his thoughts until each case was solved.

But at this point he didn't need to read them, he h ad all the particulars of this case memorized. A man. Tall, wiry, then thick and heavy, depending on who you asked, which meant no one had truly seen him. The crimes had no geological, celestial, or chronological pattern, but the scenes were always the same. And the victims very similar in age, appearance. Status played no role, the poor had died just alongside the wealthy, all equal in his eyes. So appearance was everything, the face. The frame beneath the façade that denoted wealth or poverty, the flesh itself. He took the greatest pleasure in the obliteration of beauty, of depersonalizing to mere material what many would consider perfection. He was the god of their destruction.

What could cause a man to embrace such depravity, to think the complete evisceration of other humans could ameliorate everything that boiled inside of him? Was he reliving a trauma, addressing an anger long past? Did something break him beyond salvation and these murders were the fallout?

Emmett didn't know, at least not yet. But he knew that people could recreate themselves into something that saved them, or at least sheltered them from their pain.

* * *

It was always so quiet. Sometimes he could almost imagine her voice echoing down the narrow brownstone hallway. But it never had.

In the nightstand, bound together by a tied leather strap, were Emmett's early case drawings. He was an excellent artist, not by his own standards but by most at headquarters. It was his early foot in the door so to speak, his meticulous images of evidence, crime scenes, and suspects.

And in the nightstand underneath those early work drawings, another neatly bound set of images were holed away, all in black ink and hidden in a worn brown case. Sketches of a young woman, some drawn during her life some after, and a small baby.

Images of that baby at four, at nine, pulled solely from imagination, for the baby had never seen those years. As time passed, the drawings became fewer until Emmett stopped drawing altogether outside of work. Save his wife and son, and just once a year on their death day. It was the only moment with those thoughts he allowed himself anymore.

When Emmett and Helena married, he'd just joined the police force, a new recruit from the academy and a star pupil, ready to take on the city. But he was more interested in love and the prospect of the large family that both he and his wife dreamed of, both coming from small families and wealthy but cold upbringings in the city as they had.

They bought a small country home on the edge of the city and a wonderful horse his wife named Hedges and two sweet milk cows that loved attention. They had everything they ever wanted in a small flock of chickens for eggs, flowers in the garden that bloomed that spring in yellows and oranges and soon there was a baby on the way.

But he was gathering firewood on a Saturday morning when he heard Helena cry out; then almost as quickly as the labor began it ended and with it, two heartbeats, their new hopeful world disappearing with her death and the baby's.

Emmett sat broken with the still bodies of the only woman he'd ever loved and a tiny boy that he couldn't bear to name. The grief and guilt nearly destroyed him. He'd failed them both.

The baby had his mother's eyes, blue as the country sky sheltering the outskirts of Baltimore but still and unmoving, like a doll's eyes. And Emmett wondered if the baby saw his father during those few brief breaths, when that tiny fist clutched around his finger. Did he see anything? And if so was it only the grey expanse of the thatched ceiling and the wooden rafters? Emmett could only hope that he saw in that short moment how much his father loved him.

The fall days felt like years, and Emmett soon realized that he couldn't live alone in the confines of their home, tending the animals and looking at the hillside views he once shared with Helena. And so he moved back to the city, into a small brownstone near police headquarters, the majority of it accommodating his workroom and den - dank, undecorated and austere, with the noises of city just outside his door, distracting and relentless.

And he threw himself into the arms of work, who proved to be a needy companion. Never fulfilled, no amount of time ever enough.

He rose through the ranks quickly and quietly, earning little respect from the older ranks initially but soon proving his worth in case after case. They grudgingly acknowledged that the city needed young Emmett.

He was clinical and precise, with deductive capabilities that most of the other officers knew they'd never have. He had a mind you couldn't build. And over time it didn't necessarily wear him down, it just made him different. Harder, more detached.

With every blood-strewn crime scene, his mind went deeper into itself, living in the minutiae. And when he did sleep, he dreamed mostly of clues, his subconscious mind still pouring through evidence.

Fields had readily given his life to the police force. Perhaps he was running from a past too painful to live with but the city depended on him, as did the mayor and the mass of people who breathed life into the heart of Baltimore. It was his duty to keep them safe; and in an ideal world they'd never know the dangers that could have befallen them.

But everyone knew about the Keeper of Death case, it topped every newspaper, the headlines getting larger and more harrowing as the death toll mounted. And the city's collective fear reminded Fields of the Ivan case from a scant year ago.

But Ivan's crimes mimicked the written word in a very precise clinical fashion, translating Poe's syllabic horrors into macabre dioramas. The murders fulfilled a desire to absorb genius. But Ivan titillated himself, where the Keeper of Death murdered in the throes of hatred. He wasn't constructing art, he was deconstructing life. The bodies…reduced to unrecognizable meat and skin and puddles. There was a deep and insatiable evil whetted by the crimes. And that, Field's knew, made him more dangerous than Ivan.

* * *

Ignoring his grumbling stomach, Emmett shaved and found a set of fresh, starched clothes then dressed and headed the few scant blocks to headquarters.

Like so many of his days, the hours poured together - scouring the town and revisiting the crime scenes, his pen scratching out notes and drawings while the slow rain continued to pour.

Then once again it was 2:00 am, the rain falling heavily, loudly, in straight windless torrents as he stood under the awning of The Grey Fox, a closed umbrella in his hand. The door rattled open and Anna Munroe came around the other side, fumbling silently with the lock and the old, fidgety key.

And as Anna turned quickly, thinking only about her class exam in the morning, she nearly jumped out of her skin with a start.

"OH! Detective Fields! I…."

Her hand landed on his chest but she quickly pulled it away, holding it with the other as she tried to catch her breath, horrified at the impropriety.

They both knew that the nightly escort she'd agreed upon was nowhere in sight, as she locked up to return home that early, dangerous morning. And Emmett allowed himself a small smile to reassure her.

"Miss Monroe, you appear to be on the way home without an escort at 2:15 am."

Without taking his eyes off of her, he opened the umbrella and held it over them, offering his arm silently as they walked out into the rain.


End file.
